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A Collection of 
Tavern Club 


Meum est propositum in tabema mori 
Et vinum appositum sitienti ori 
Ut dicant cum venerint angelorum chori 
Deus sit propitius isti potatori 




Note v 

The Bear and the Bowl, 1885 

Henry Strong Durand 1 
To my Brother: Salvini Dinner, 1889 

Translated: Thomas Russell Sullivan 4 
Bear Song in Antigone, 1890 

Arlo Bates 5 
To W. H. Kendal, 1891 

Thomas Russell Sullivan 7 
Prologue: The Maid's Tragedy, 1S92 

Barrett Wendell 9 
Epilogue: A Night in Seville, 1896 

Thomas Russell Sullivan 11 
Prospect: Notice of Christmas Sports, 1897 

Herbert Putnam 12 
A Toast 

Robert Grant 15 
The Trentices' Song: The Prodigal Srni, 1898 

George Pierce Baker 18 
Prologue: The Double Marriage, 1900 

Arlo Bates 20 
Verses at Dinner to Mark Twain, 1901 

M. A. DeWolfe Howe 22 
Song: "Lawyers' Night," 1902 

WiNTHROP Ames 24 
Lines on the Playing of Mercedes, 1903 

Arlo Bates 25 


To B. P.: A "Hellion" Verse, 1903 

M. A. DeWolfe Howe 30 
Song by "Musicus," Prize Competition, 1903 

Thomas Russell Sullivan 31 
The Musketeers, 1903 

Robert Grant 33 
Glitha's Song: The Vanished Bride, 1903 

Henry Copley Greene 35 
To Owen Wister: A "Hellion" Verse, 1904 

Francis Shaw Sturgis 37 
On Staging a Play by B. W.: A "Hellion" 

Verse, 1904 Francis Shaw Sturgis 38 

To the Taverners, with a Present of Champagne, 

1904 Owen Wister 39 

Lines at Dinner to Cameron Forbes, 1904 

Arthur Stanwood Pier 40 
Lines at Dinner to Cameron Forbes, 1904 

M. A. DeWolfe Howe 42 
Sonnet: Twentieth Anniversary, 1904 

Arlo Bates 44 
Verses at Twentieth Anniversary Dinner, 1904 

Robert Grant 45 
The Presidential Range: Song, Twentieth Anni- 
versary dinner, 1904 M. A. DeWolfe Howe 49 
Epilogue: Christmas play, 1904 

M. A. DeWolfe Howe 51 
Valentine : "Let the Hills be joyful together," 1905 

Thomas Russell Sullivan 53 
Valentine: to P. T., 1905 

Arthur Stanwood Pier B5 
To Booker Washington, 1905 

Le Baron Russell Briggs 56 


From the occasional verse read or recited by 
members of the Tavern Club at its meetings, 
these selections have been compiled. Some of 
the earlier manuscripts unfortunately are lost. 
The present examples of those that remain are 
privately printed to mark the twenty-first an- 
niversary of the Club, as well as to insure their 
preservation and to furnish a pleasant reminder 
of the past. 

The compilation does not include the well- 
remembered work contributed at various times 
by club-guests. 

December 1, 1905. 


Read at the Dedication of the Bowl — 1885 

I RISE in honor of the Bowl; 

The Bowl itself, not that within it; 
I sing the body, not the soul. 

And how a Bear did first begin it. 

How Doctor Tilden, filled with zeal,^ 
To buy that bear a fund collected, 

Nor hearkened to the sad appeal 

Of certain men who quite objected. 

But we were loath to lose our pet 

As lawyers are to lose a client; 
And vowing we should have it yet. 

The Doctor bargained with the Giant.^ 

The following footnotes were prepared for the rereading 
of these verses at the Twentieth Anniversary Dinner, No- 
vember 11, 1904. 

^ The above is a true history. Dr. Tilden's fund for the 
purchase of the Bear was diverted and used for the piu-chase 
of the Bowl. 

^ The Giant was the proprietor (and one of the curiosities 
as well) of the dime museum in which the bear was seen and 


Ah! when again upon this Club 

Shall dawn an idea half so witty 

As purchasing an ursine cub! 

But that Executive Committee 

Which rules all things pertaining to 
Such ideas, be they ne'er so clever, 

Which sits on things proposed to do. 
They sat upon that scheme forever. 

Still, Gentlemen, to our relief 

From that young b'ar we find we're owing 
The bas-relief, which is the chief 

Adornment to this punch-bowl glowing. 

The bowl itself — but here I pause. 

I do not dare thus single-handed 
To touch that subject deep, because 

It needs a strong force, well commanded. 

To well discuss it as it stands 

Filled full with Pitcher's^ strong potation; 
I can but stretch forth both my hands 

And make this solemn invocation: 

^ Pitcher was a noted publican and brewer of punch in the 
good town of Boston ia the last century. 


Oh! work of art to cheer the heart! 
Oh! Punch-Bowl most phenomenal! 
Whene'er your contents glide adown the Tavern 
Club's oesophagus 
May it feel a presence rising 
From the cavity abdominal, 
As though King Cole in spirit stole from out that 
dark sarcophagus! 

Henry Strong Durand. 


From the Italian of Federico Calamati; for the dinner to 
Salvini, November 14, 1889. 

ToRQUATO, all in vain your love demands 

A labored tribute at an exile's hands, 

To him whose gentle presence oversways 

The prostrate soul, and stills the note of praise. 

Salvini! Glory of the art that blends 

All arts in one, and makes all nations friends! 

Nor lip, nor hand, nor trembling pen of mine 

Shall speak for him, whose speech is half divine; 

Demand for that a more than mortal strain; 

Bring Alfieri back to life again! 

Translated by Thomas Russell Sullivan. 


April 1, 1890. 
Air: — " Vive V Amour** 

Let every good Tavemer fill up his mug; 

Vive la compagnie! 
We'll drink to our bear with a gluggity-glug; 

Vive la compagnie! 
We '11 lustily shout for the jolly brown bear, 
We '11 drink to him deep as we drink to the fair. 
For under his flag can be no care; 

Vive la compagnie! 

Chorus: Vive la bear, vive la bear! 
Vive la, vive la, vive la bear! 
Joy we share; down with care! 
Vive la compagnie! 

There 's many a tavern and many a bear; 

Vive la compagnie! 
None of them all with our own may compare ; 

Vive la compagnie! 
So sharp with his ears, so quick with his jaw; 


So strong in his stomach, so ready with paw; 
As clear in his head as a judge in the law; 
Vive la compagnie! 

Then every good Taverner fill up his glass; 

Vive la compagnie! 
And deep will we drink as we let the toast pass ; 

Vive la compagnie! 
Well lustily shout for our jolly brown bear, 
And drink to him deep as we drink to the fair, 
Good comrades together with never a care; 
Vive la compagnie! 

Arlo Bates. 


From the Tavern Club, February 28, 1891. 

When, before the cauldron's flame, 
Glamis to the witches came, 
And its bubbles boiled away, 
Still the sisters bade him stay; 
Like a show, they brought to pass 
Kings, reflected in a glass. 

Through the Tavern, like a show, 
Kings have come, and kings will go; 
Loftiest of art's lineage, 
Hero, poet, seer, and sage; 
Still, departing from the door. 
Still the glass shows many more. 

Lo! to-night our taper shines 
For the art of fleeting lines; 
Of our guest the vanished trace 
Only memory can replace. 
By what spell, when he departs, 
Shall his image fill our hearts ? 


How shall we this presence hold 
In the days when we are old ? 

Which of all his titles won 

Philamir, Pygmalion? 

Trevor, Crichton, Ira Lee, 

All he was, or is to be ? 

Which of these, when each is best, 

Best befits the regal guest ? 

Ah! the best that art reveals 
Time, the thief, remorseless steals! 
Something dearer than his fame 
To the Tavern with him came; 
In the Tavern, to the end. 
Call him comrade, kinsman, friend. 

Friend, may all our hearts can do 
Bind us closer still to you! 
If, in Life's upsurging track, 
Wave on wave shall bring you back. 
Through the Tavern, like a show, 
Kings may come, and kings may go! 

So shall we this presence hold 
In the days when we are old! 

Thomas Russell Sullivan. 


Made for the performance of the "Maid's Tragedy" at the 
Tavern Club, March 4, 1892. 

The play, good friends, we bring you here to- 
You have your parts in too. Ours to rehearse 
What Francis Beaumont wrote us in the days 
When still Westminster lacked him, when he 

Fellow to Shakespeare; what John Fletcher, too. 
Sharing his cloak and heart, so intertwined 
Amid his stronger verse that mortals since 
Name them together. Yours the subtler part: 
For would you know their meaning, who have 

slept — 
Save for the drowsy book- worms, — since the 

When England still was merry, conscienceless, 
You must forget yourselves; nay, for a while. 
Forget the godly, warring centuries 
Of freedom that have made you what you are. 
The men our poets wrote for be to-night. 
Ready to make in fancy what the craft 
Of stage-wright in these unfantastic days 



Must fain make for the vulgar — palaces, 
Worlds, beauty, shadowed in a word or two, 
But here for who will see them. Furthermore, 
You must be men who in the name of King 
Hear no more term of state, but God's deep voice 
Naming his earthly vicar. Prone to sin 
Crowned knaves may be, even as our baser selves ; 
But God's anointment makes their trespasses 
Graver than ours, yet safer. His the hand. 
No earthly one, that may chastise the wrongs 
The royal madmen wreak, whirling along 
To their damnation, deeper still than ours. 
When God shall ask them, trembling, how they 

The trust his chrism gave them. Even so 
Amintor, whose sad story you shall hear, 
Held sacred him that wronged him. This the part 
You play to-night, helping us shadow forth 
Such passions as made English folk forget 
Awhile their own vexations, when God's voice 
Still echoed, calling to his glorious ones 
Elizabeth, by grace of God, the Queen! 

Bakrett Wendell. 


To "A Night in Seville," December 23, 1896. 

Four souls are saved, and so our masque is ended, 
With two and two in one another blended! 
And we advance a twelvemonth nearer Heaven, 
When Time unfolds the gates of Ninety -Seven. 
Until that solemn hour let mirth and laughter 
Ring in our ears from every beam and rafter. 
All uncomplaining, let us look with pity 
On our Executive, our House Committee, 
Our doctors, statesmen, shades of Ford and 

Marlowe — 
Even our poets, and thank God for Arlo! 

Thomas Russell Sullivan. 


Notice of Christmas Sports, 1897. 


will please remember 
Twenty-second of December 
Is the date the powers that be 
For the Christmas Masque decree. 

What the plot I may not tell 

(Programme later on reveals). 

This at least be known: it deals 

With fable, myth, and prophecy, — 

Was, May be. Might, May never be; — 

For it pictures what befell 

When Venus, tired of blowing bellows. 

Planned a lark with some good fellows, — 

Old acquaintance, whom her lord 

Deemed too rakish for his board : 

And Vulcan, frantic, — sure he 's sold — 

Is now browbeaten, now cajoled; 

While, 'mid domestic downs and ups, 

Blithe Bacchus carols in his cups. 

And leads Olympus on a racket 

That threatens doom, — but does not crack it. 


And yet we would not have you think 
The motifs are but love and drink; 
Know, the bard doth loft his strain, — 
As the revel moves again, — 
Scruples not a Delphic measure 
(Happy Bard! who had the leisure!) 
And careless of the fame to follow. 
Pays his duty to Apollo. 

Ye, then. Keepers of the Bear, 

Ye, who are the true Arcturi, 

Pledged to guard his ursine fury, — 

Fail not to assemble there 

Sharp at Seven. Who comes late 

Enters by the area gate. 

(Pray, now, mark how that 's explicit, — 

Leaded, so you shall not miss it.) 

Those who would the feast attend 

By Tuesday must their notice send 

That — lacking Hebe — Gan' may get us 

Ample honey — from Hymettus — 

Assure fit service, and lay on 

Copious pipes from — Helicon. 

One more caution, ye elect: 

Mindful that the laws reject 

From this solemn-jocund feast 

All save members, — bring no guest. 

Lastly (not quite finished yet) 


The Christmas Box: Do not forget 
The order is that all be merry. 

Herbert Putnam, 



Verses read November 22, 1898, in response to the toast of 
"The Ladies," on the occasion of the dinner in honor 
of those who did service in connection with the Hospital 
Ship "Bay State." 

You ask me to speak in behalf of the ladies 
Who shone in our bout with the cohorts of Cadiz ! 
You ask me to speak on behalf of the nurses, 
And with your permission I '11 do it in verses. 

**The ladies, God bless them!" the toast never 

From Alaska's cold snows to the sunny Canaries. 
Man fills up his goblet and drains it while drink- 

But the sentiment lies in the thought which he 's 

Those dear little dolls with their pretty grimaces. 
Their kittenish ways and their delicate faces. 
Are precious to some because dainty and fear- 
Adorably helpless and readily tearful. 


The housewives with tact, rather plump and good 

Nice, amiable souls with a genius for cooking, 
Are popular still with the saint and the sinner, — 
When the Chair cries, " The ladies ! " man thinks 

of his dinner. 

The daughter of Spain with the night in her hair, 
With the sloe in her eye and an indolent air. 
Entrances her lover who taps at her pane; 
DeHcious ! But where are the navies of Spain ? 

That new woman is fair no man needs to be told. 
She has night in her hair, she has tresses of gold; 
But what makes her precious for you and for me 
Is the soul which is in her, the soul which is free. 

Which, bursting the fetters of fashion and caste. 
Undeterred by tradition and deaf to the past. 
Seeks a post in the ranks, claims the right to a 

Wherever her presence can succor the race. 

Wherever there's room for sweet patience and 

For love which complains not and courage to 



The stress of life's battle; albeit to tread 
A hospital ship in the wake of the dead. 

Humanity calls, and undaunted she stands. 
There is sweat on her brow, there is blood on her 

Ho! dames with traditions, does this give you 

Take heed, and remember the navies of Spain! 

" The ladies, God bless them! " Long life to the 

A health to the nurses who served at their post 
In a hospital ship on a hurricane sea 
For the sake of our country, for you and for me. 

Robert Grant. 


From "The Prodigal Son" (1598,) 
December 22, 1898. 

Here's to the youth, the 'prentice lad, 

Keen, clever, ah, but lazy. 
Who quips and quirks, and plays his pranks. 

Till his master is nigh crazy. 
He loves a catch, this 'prentice lad, 

And lustily he sings it; 
Give him a holiday, and see 

How merrily he flings it. 
But when the catchpoles stop his play. 

Ah, best he loves the fighting; 
Come when it will, at morn or night. 

That never gets a slighting. 

Cho. Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha, 
Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha! 

What is the war-cry then, my dears, 

Of these apprentice cubs ? 
Softly now! Don't split my ears — 
All (spoken). Clubs! Clubs! Ho, this way, clubs! 


Cho. Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha. 
Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha! 

Is it for fun alone he fights ? 

Oh, no, the Ordinary 
Oft turns him out aglow with port, 

With sherry, or Canary. 
Then take the wall as you pass by, 

Most courteously yield it, 
Or he will club you to the street — 

For stoutly he can wield it. 
And oh he is a ready knight 

To aid distressed damsels, 
Both high and low, both dark and fair, 

Dutch fraiileins and French mamselles. 

Cho. Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha. 
Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha! 

What are the things, my gentle dears. 

That make him live so long ? 
Softly now ! Don't shock my ears — 
All (spoken). Why, laughter, love, and song! 

Cho. Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha. 
Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha! 

George Pierce Baker. 


For "The Double Marriage," April 18, 1900. 

While yet the stage spoke to the hearts of men. 
And wrought with deeper passions, nobler deeds, 
John Fletcher made this play. The men who 

Uncumbered by the craft of later time, 
The tricks mechanic of this clever age 
That smothers art with gewgaws, heard and 

thrilled ; 
Lived in the actors, pictured every place. 
And bore a part in every mimic scene. 
The magic of the poet's verse for them 
Was like the wand of Prospero, to build 
The fabric of a vision; they were wise, 
Not through the tangible, but through the real; 
Not through the painted scene and sordid fact, 
But through the vision of the inner sight, — 
Imagination's perfect prescience. 

To-night be as were they. Listen and look 
With inward ear and eye. Let our poor craft 
Be the suggestion of a gracious dream 
Your minds shall build. 'T is ours only to hint, — 


To hint most haltingly, — yet you may know 
The sweet persuasion of a moving truth. 
Your thought shall do the thing we cannot do; 
Your fancy chmb to heights our buskins miss; 
And your imagination fill the stage. 

Whate'er success attends will be your work; 
Whatever failure no less — yours, not ours. 

Arlo Bates. 


Read at the Dinner to Mark Twain, January 16, 1901. 

From Hartford town a Yankee once across the 

ages strayed, 
And sate him down at Arthur's Court to ply his 

Yankee trade. 
And oh! it was a fearsome sight to see those 

Knights of old 
Learn all our little Yankee tricks, and do as they 

were told ; — 
Sir Mordred at the telephone. Sir Bedivere first 

Sir Galahad a bicyclist, breaking his pure young 

The lasso in a tournament, better than mail and 

The weekly journal — half misprints — read by 

Queen Guenevere; 
Merlin himself outwitted — his magic turned to 

dross ; 
And over all the Yankee stranger lifted high — 

Sir Boss! 


But there is yet another Knight — errant from 
Hartford town. 

His Arthur's Court has been the world, for wan- 
dering up and down. 

From Calaveras County and the Mississippi 

He has roughed it to the mountains where the 
Alpine sunsets gleam; 

Punch, brothers, punch — (but in the ribs) — he 
sings through many a tome. 

And tramping much abroad he 's left some inno- 
cence at home. 

What wonder, then, if he has made a world of 
men his debtors, 

For all his lance of wit has wrought at the Came- 
lot of letters! 

Full well his accolade is won — his enemies all 
slain ; 

So let us cry, ** Arise, Sir Mark — nay, twice a 
Knight — Mark Twain ! " 

M. A. De Wolfe Howe. 


Lawyers' Night, February 3, 1902. 

Every worthy club in Boston 

Has its proper point of pride: 
At the Botolph Sunday Concerts, 

At the Somerset 't is " side;" 
And the graveyard gives the Union 

Its distinctive clammy calm. 
But the Dry Martini Cocktail 
Is the Tavern's special charm! 

Take a pinch of pepper. 
Add a gill of ink, 
Half a rubber overshoe; 

Mix 'em in the sink. 
Stew 'em in a saucepan, 

Top 'em off with ale. . . . 
That's the Tavern mixture 
For a Dry Cocktail! 



On the playing of "Mercedes," at the Tavern Club, 
February 24, 1903. 

Once, walking in the wilderness, 

I met a maiden fair; 
Wild were her eyes, wild was her mien. 

Wild was her tangled hair. 
She walked as one distraught by fate. 

And made her plaintive moan; 
I knew her the Dramatic Muse, 

Lost, and forgot, and lone. 
I spoke her kind, and would have stayed 

Her tears' unceasing flow; 
Beside a runnel sat she down. 

And told me all her woe. 
Her voice had caught the notes of birds, 

But deepened like the sea. 
As half she spoke and half she sighed 

Her plaint all bitterly. 

" Once all the world was mine to rule, 
And mankind owned my sway; 
But now dominion have I none; 
My bests will none obey. 


Once, when my mimic world was shown 

All Ufe was dim beside; 
This was the real, this the true, 

This only could abide. 
I showed the stujff the gods have used 

To fashion human life: 
The joy, the anguish, hope, and fear. 

The dreams, the doubt, the strife; 
Wild passion mingled like a cup 

Of honey mixed with gall; 
Human desire with quenchless thirst. 

And death that ends it all. 
The hearts of men were in my hand; 

Their souls throbbed at my will; J 

I kindled in their breasts a flame | 

Which lights the ages still. \ 

" Such lovers as I had of old | 

When Greece was in her prime: ] 

Euripides with godlike brow, { 

Vast ^schylus subHme; | 

Rare Sophocles with gift of tears \ 

More sweet than love's own smile; | 

Keen Aristophanes with wit ^ 

Might e'en the gods beguile. '' 
But now" — 


Her voice broke off in sobs; 

Then sudden anger flashed 
From her wet eyes; with scornful hand 

The crowding tears she dashed; 
And in a fitful voice, now sad, 

Now swelling into rage. 
She poured her words indignant forth. 

Indicting thus our age: 

'* But now the stage which once I graced 

Is your reproach and shame; 
A place where scurril wantons jest. 

Or fools all good defame. 
Where once Apollo's lyre sung 

The twanging banjos beat; 
Where honor triumphed over death 

'T is trampled under feet. 
Where Terence with a skill adroit 

Wrought shrewd satiric fun, 
Pinero turns the sewers out 

To fester in the sun. 
There Ibsen builds a lazar-house 

For lepers of the mind; 
And playwright-panders search the stews 

Fresh filthiness to find. 
His golden cup, divinely wrought 

With jewels sparkling rich. 


D'Annunzio fills to its brave brim 

From hell's obscenest ditch. 
Where once pure maiden figures passed, — 

Hapless Antigone, 
Cordelia sad, gay Rosalind, — 

Sappho or Zaza see! 
I hear the silly laughter-spume 

Indecent jests exploit! 
I laughed with flashing Sheridan, — 

I weep at Charlie Hojrt. 
Ah, when the gods a race would blast 

They send Vulgarity, 
The fellest fury known in hell, 

Its pest and curse to be. 
With jeweled names your history set, 

Imperishably fine, — 
Ford, Fletcher, Webster, Beaumont, Ben, 

And Shakespeare the divine, — 
Have you no place to do me grace ? 

Where men do not forget 
How in an earlier, happier time 

Such love on me was set.^ 
Once I gave joy and grace to life. 

To valor, best renown; 
Now will not one poor worshiper 

My flameless altars crown ? " 


She ceased. The Kttle runnel purled 

In music at our feet; 
And all the sombre wood was hushed 

To hear its chiming sweet. 
Fain would I comfort to her give, 

And sudden in my head 
Sprang a quick thought. I seized her hand, 

As eagerly I said: 

"Goddess, one place forgets thee not; 
There yet thine altars flame. 
The Tavern Club is faithful still. 

And guards thine ancient fame. 
Thine art still there hath reverence; 

There yet the lyre rings. 
Thou art not voiceless while for thee 
Melodious Aldrich sings!" 

Arlo Bates. 

TO B. P. 
A * 

"Literary Night," February 24, 1903. 

Oh, Perry, in our hours of ease 
We send you verses — worse than these; 
When backward flows the Atlantic tide, 
'T is just a case of BHss Denied. 

M. A. DeWolfe Howe. 


By Musicus, winner of Prize in Song Competition, 
February 24, 1903. 

Here 's to the Bear who abides in his lair, 
His castle, his club and his cavern; 
Of his warm, shaggy hair may he never go bare, 
Here's a hug for the Bear in the Tavern! 

Here's to the Prex whom no hellion can vex; 
And here 's to the chair he has sat in ; 
Here's to the speech that its lesson will teach, 
And here's to his lungs and his Latin! 


Of his warm, shaggy hair may he never go bare ! 
Here 's a hug for the Prex in the Tavern ! 

Here 's to our guest in a glass of the best. 
To prove him the warmth of our greeting! 
Once for his health, once again for his wealth, 
Once more for the joy of this meeting! 


Of his warm, shaggy hair may he never go bare ! 
Here 's a hug for the Guest in the Tavern ! 

32 A SONG 

Here 's to the Club that 's the Hght of the Hub, 
And all who turned out to invent it! 
Let the red drink hard to the green-ribbon guard. 
Till the green and the red repent it! 


Of its warm, shaggy hair may it never go bare! 
Here's a hug for the Club in the Tavern! 

Thomas Russell Sullivan. 


Verses read at the Tavern Club, December 4, 1903. 

The Musketeers are here again; 
Three gladsome Gallic gentlemen. 
Here's Athos with the poet's glance, 
Here's Porthos with the portly paunch, 
And Aramis, who somehow strayed. 
But comes to-night to claim his blade. 
And sit once more with this dear crowd. 
By whose kind vote it is allowed. 

GalHc are we in pulse and brain. 

For we were nourished on champagne; 

Whose bubbling vintage when man 's dry 

Lifts him in zigzags to the sky. 

But though we love the last safe drop. 

We always know just when to stop, 

And tottering " hellions " see us stand 

Staunch as a Ughthouse far from land. 

Our province has been to protect 

The Tavern's proper self-respect, 

Yet keep the note of gayety 

At just that fascinating key 

When men can tumble into bed 

And still remember what they've said. 


In these old halls enlarged and decked 
Our charge shall still be to protect 
The heaven-born poet as he sings, 
The minstrel when he stirs the strings; 
And yet give mirth full elbow room. 
We are the enemies of gloom. 
So Arlo's soul may sport in peace 
Perched on an ample mantel-piece. 
So nonsense voiced by joyous men 
Shall make the tired brain young again. 

And you, Sir, sitting in the chair 
Our D'Artagnan and Captain are. 
Though D'Artagnan was but a " gent " 
Compared with what you represent. 
What model for old Dumas' pen, 
Had you been born and doing then! 

As Taverners and Musketeers 
We now renew the pledge of years. 
With ranks unbroken here we stand 
With sword and cup in either hand. 
Our blades are made of flawless steel. 
We slake our thirsts but never reel. 
Our hearts are true, our faith we swear 
To Art, to Friendship and the Bear! 

Robert Grant. 


From "The Vanished Bride," December 22, 1903. 

In days long dead there lived a Knight, 
In old Mortaine, whose clouded sight 
Revealed not to him, day or night. 

The face of her whose soul he loved. 

And though he heard the singing call 
Of maid to man through every hall 
In gay Mortaine, no song at all 

Heard he of hers whose songs he loved. 

Yet had he faith that made the air 
Of strange Mortaine alive with fair 
Brave visions strengthening him to dare 

Great deeds for her whose strength he loved. 

Wherefore with dragon-shapes that flew 
And crawled and crept and rose anew 
To slay the Knight, he fought and slew 

Each one, for her whose heart he loved. 


And lo, the dragon-shapes once slain, 
The Knight, rejoicing, heard the strain 
Of lutes, and saw her face again 

Whose song and heart and soul he loved. 
Henry Copley Greene 


A "Hellion" Verse, January 15, 1904. 

About your novel. The Virginian, 
There seems to be but one opinion; 
As near as we can make it, Mr., 
There 's lots of money Owin' Wr. ! 

Francis Shaw Sturgis. 


" WE BOSTONIANS I " January 15, 1904. 

A "Hellion" Verse. 

Barrett wrote a little play 
Whose plot was white as snow, 
And everywhere that Barrett played 
The play was sure to " go." 

Francis Shaw Sturgis. 



With a present of champagne on the occasion of the dinner 
to Perrier Jouet, February 3, 1904. 

Brothers in Tavern, you have willed 

A sparkling guest to entertain; 
And as you sit with glasses filled 

O hear an absentee complain: 
Pity, my brothers, his sore plight 

That may not dine with you to-night. 
His spirit and his heart are sore. 

His fortune like his wine is brute: 
But they that cannot go to war 

Make haste to send a substitute; 
For his dull stead this foam of France 

Shall make you gain from his mischance. 

Owen Wister. 


Read at Dinner to Cameron Forbes, May 26, 1904. 

He's hitched no wagon to a star; 

He drives a constellation; 
The Southern Cross his coursers are, 

Large deeds his destination. 
Drawn by those soft, imperial orbs 

That never wheel in Northern skies. 
He goes, from Emerson and Forbes, 

To make a people rich and wise. 

A thousand islands wait for him; 

The Tagalog and Moro, 
Visayans, Ygorotes grim 

Who use the bow and arrow, 
The Macabebe, friendly soul, — 

All wait his coming to be won 
Out of a century of dole 

Into a thousand years of sun. 

All through the archipelago 

They'll lay aside the bolo 
Whenever they shall come to know 

That Cam's advancing solo. 


He'll keep them guileless of our worst 
And teach them all our best — like Taft — 

And shield them from one word, the curst 
New coinage of our language — Graft. 

Let others build a great canal, 

Pick up the French dropped stitches; 
Our Cam does something less banal 

Than merely digging ditches. 
That railways now may loop the heights 

Where lurked the brutal ambuscade, 
That hospitals may rise on sites 

Where mercy shrank till now afraid. 

We send our football strategist, 

Our comrade and good fellow. 
And though among white men he's missed. 

He 's good for brown and yellow. 
And when the years bring back to us 

The same Cam, only older. 
We Tavemers, from Dick to Gus, 

Will dine him, shoulder to shoulder. 

Arthur Stanwood Pier. 


At Dinner to Cameron Forbes, May 26, 1904. 

To the East, to the East! Some can hear nothing 

Than the tinkling call of the old temple bells; 
But a voice, like a memory waked from the past, 
Calls to him, him alone, "You are coming at 

For the blood of your fathers, still warm at the 

Leaps free at the Orient cry to depart ! " 

One grandsire heeded the same searching cry 
When the flags at his mast-tops were wonted to 


Over cargoes of sweet-scented wares from the 

Of magic and mystery, bound for the strand 
Where all that he ventured forth bore him again 
Tenfold in the wealth and the wisdom of men. 

Another — that sage of New England, whose 

Needs not to be spoken, so sure is his fame — 


Cruised wide through the Eastern dominions of 

And home for our treasure his argosies brought, 
Enlarging the spirit, enabling the man 
When *' thou must " is the order, to whisper " I 


See them both in the darkness of war's bitter 

Full-armed with the weapons of wisdom and 

power — 
One counseling greatly with rulers perplexed 
Over soldiers, and sinews, and what to do next; 
One lifting the heart of the people with song, 
And girding the right still to conquer the wrong. 

What wonder then, Cam, that you turn from our 

And journey afar to your grandfathers' East, 
Where a patriot's mission of mercy awaits 
Your part in its doing ? Oh fortunate fates — 
Now the isles of the East shall account them- 
selves blest 
That young Cameron Forbes is come out of the 

M. A. DeWolfe Howe. 


For the Twentieth Anniversaxy, November 11, 1904. 

Grieved for lost Youth, who not for prayers 

would stay. 
But mocking with light laughter, her fair head 
Gold-aureoled with her sunny hair, had fled 
Like some wild dryad down a woodland way. 
Taking the cheer and brightness of my day, — 
I walked beside grim beldam Age instead; 
Till happy chance up to the Tavern led: 
And here with joy I found once more my may. 
Here where the man speaks with the boy's frank 

Laughs the lad's laugh, catches youth's wine- 
foam jest; 
Where stiffened throats supple in blithesome 

And lips white-bearded yet in smiles are young; 
Here, where, though heads be gray, we find the 

And mirth that to immortal youth belong. 

Arlo Bates. 


Read at the Dinner on the Twentieth Anniversary 
November 11, 1904. 

Twenty years of bread and fizz. 
Clever stunts and honest mirth! 
Twenty happy years it is 
Since the moment of our birth. 
Whiskered men to-night we sit, 
Saving Arlo who has shaved. 
Well because we've welcomed wit. 
Young because we've misbehaved. 

Surgeons brilliant with the knife 
Capering like pantaloons. 
Leaders of litigious strife 
Howling songs in many tunes. 
Artists hungry after fame 
Popping champagne corks at care, 
These and more whom I could name 
Are the followers of the Bear. 

Ever to be serious 
Indicates the tedious mind. 
Usefulness is labor plus 
Joy of a relaxing kind. 


Those who deign not to unbend 
To the foUies of their peers 
Rust out lonely to the end. 
We shall hve a thousand years. 

Mr. EUot has said 
That the ashman or the clerk 
Toiling for his daily bread 
Should take pleasure in his work. 
Is there not an equal need 
That our nervous native clay 
Driven by the " hustling " creed 
Should take pleasure in its play? 

Joy comes first, but art is next, 
And our A is underHned. 
Scorn of cheapness is our text. 
Reverence for the well-trained mind, 
Homage for the gifted soul 
Which keeps true unto its aim 
As the needle to the pole. 
Deaf to fashionable fame. 

We have thrown some huge bouquets 
At the famous of our time. 
Sent home staggering — under bays — 
Genius from many a clime. 


But the fullness of your heart 
Aggravated by champagne 
Never has acclaimed false art 
Nor has crowned a shallow brain. 

Fellowship comes third and last; 
Nature's kindest gift to man. 
Gilder of the dreamy past. 
Henchman of time's caravan. 
Who upon life's winding road 
Keeps the dust of travel down. 
Helps the wanderer with his load, 
Balks the fly-blown cynic's frown. 

Here we learn to love and serve, 
And each spirit warms to each 
When the barriers of reserve 
Fall before the flood of speech. 
As to what the psychists claim 
Controversial folk may vary. 
But our Dick's best hold on fame 
Are his words, — the c^tctionary. 

Joy and Art and Fellowship! 
So we know the reason why 
Some men when life's cables slip 
In a tavern fain would die. 


Twenty years have come and gone. 
Twenty years will pass again; 
Other doctors will be bom, 
Others wielding brush and pen 
Here will sit and pledge the toast 
Dear to age and beardless youth, 
" To the Bear, our merry host, 
While we live let 's live for truth." 
Thus each generation's birth 
Shall attest the nearing goal, 
While the echoes of your mirth 
Bring refreshment to the soul. 

Robert Grant. 


Tune: " Vicar of Bray" 

Sung by John Sturgis Codman at the Twentieth Anniversary 
Dinner, November 11, 1904. 

When first our brotherhood began, 

In days of ancient fable, 
They looked about for just the man 

To sit at the head of the table; 
They spied him out with foresight keen, 

Who'd make all men his debtors. 
And seated Howells — William Dean — 

The Dean of Yankee letters. 

Chorus : Then bless the Bear 

That guards the Chair 

At the Hub within the Hub, sir! 

My purpose still 

I will fulfill 

And die in the Tavern Club, sir! 

Next came a Colonel to command 
The Boylston Place battalions; 

He guided well the noisy band 
Of gentlemen rapscallions. 


In peace and war, to all the arts 

He held the magic key, sir, 
The key that opens kindred hearts — 

Did Colonel Henry Lee, sir! 

To Deans and Colonels now farewell. 

And hail to their successor! 
From out his academic cell 

Steps forth a loved professor. 
Of golden heart and golden tongue, — 

A gold the market 's short on, — 
The Cambridge Grecian, ever young. 

Our own Charles Eliot Norton. 

Now he whose joy it is to enrich 

Both sides of Boston's river 
Adorns our presidential niche — 

'T is Higginson, the Giver. 
But titles new he needs them not, 

He'd scorn them all, I wager; 
Yet never here shall be forgot 

The Bear's — the Ursa's — Major. 

M. A. DeWolfe Howe. 


The Christmas Play, December 23, 1904. 

Note you this, — we looked to-night 
To the Bear for our deHght; 
He, 't was said, would rule the sport. 
Lead the revels at his court. 
Show the members, young and old. 
Tavern antics manifold. 
Yet if I remember true. 
This is what he did not do; 
'T was the members — you and you — 
Showed the Bear a thing or two; 
His may be the Tavern's body. 
Yours the spirit, Paul and Waddy, 
Holker, Gericke, and Sturgis — 
You provide the true Walpurgis 
Night or day-time in the Tavern! 
Shall we grudge him, then, his cavern ? 
If the cubs outgrow the Bear, 
Shall he lose their love and care ? 
Nay, a thousand times, nay, nay! 
May he dwell with us for aye — 
Emblem of the best that 's here, 
Honest, big, without a fear, 


Rough without, and snug within. 
Loyal to his kith and kin! 
Hand in hand, then, heart by heart. 
Up, my brothers, ere we part! 
He shall lead our ancient song, 
Rendered in a Bearish tongue: 

" 'T is my purpose here to die 
In the Tavern, where the dry 
Still may find whereof to sip 
Opposite the thirsting lip. 
That the angel chorus may. 
While it wafts me heavenward, say 

* Crown, oh Lord, with approbations 
This good friend of all potations.' " 

M. A. DeWolfe Howe. 


February 14, 1905. 

*'Let the Hills be joyful together.'' 

When to write you have the will, 
Take a dose of Adams Hill. 

n 'twixt " shall" and "will" you stick. 
Try page forty, — Rhetoric. 

If you 'd flash with verbal prisms. 
Mind page thirty, — "Solecisms." 

If "colloquial" is your size, 
Dissect Hill's " Improprieti^^." 

For every form of vulgar ill. 
Deliverance lurks in Doctor Hill. 

If you court the law's delay, 
Arthur Hill will stop the way. 

If you need a " Lawyer's Night," 
Arthur Hill will set you right. 


When you 're clubbed by the poHce, 
Arthur Hill will bring surcease. 

So you shall, where'er you roam, 
Fondly seek the Hills of home. 

Thomas Russell Sullivan. 


(to p. t.) 
February 14, 1905. 

When Paul draws near the Belvidere 

In Robinson's Museum, 
In one another's marble ear 

The statues whisper, "See him!" 
And Venus wakes upon her shelf 

And tries hotfoot to follow. 
And Satyr chuckles to himself 

When Paul appals Apollo. 

Arthur Stanwood Pier. 


Lines read at the dinner in his honor, March 15, 1905. 

Born of a race enslaved, despised, and taunted, 
Quick in the burning bush God's voice to know, 
Before the king the prophet stood undaunted. 
" The Lord hath spoken : ' Let my people go ! ' " 

In cloud and fire Jehovah moved before him; 
He stretched his hand above the waters' bed; 
Through cleaving waves the God of Israel bore 

Where Pharaoh's mighty chariots sank as lead. 

Three thousand years. A freebom nation's 

Was black with gathering thunder-clouds of woe; 

Once more unheeded rang the prophet's warn- 
ing, — 

" The Lord hath spoken : ' Let my people go ! ' " 

The God of Hosts our stubborn hearts con- 
He smote the waters with avenging hand. 
High in the heavens Jehovah's trumpet sounded. 
And the red sea rolled wide across the land. 


On Horeb still the bush of God is burning; 
Still in the smoke and flame his sign we know, 
Still cries the prophet, from the mount returning , 
" The Lord hath spoken : * Let my people go ! 

'* ' My people, bound in darkness and in terror. 
My people, childlike, trustful, patient, slow, 
Yearning for light, yet groping long in error — 
Children of Freedom, let my people go!'" 

Stretch forth thine hand, O prophet giant- 
Divide the waters of the rolling sea. 
Lead thou thine host betwixt the billows parted, 
Till black shall stand with white, erect and free. 
Le Baron Russell Briggs.